We've had a rough time of it lately, all three of us snapping and whining and yelling at each other.
Eliot has been battling his asthma again, starting with a rough attack last week that culminated in another visit to the doctor, another round of steroids, round-the-clock breathing treatments, a new antibiotic for ANOTHER sneak ear infection, blah, da blah, da blah--to infinity and beyond.
Eli imagined a relaxing long weekend of fishing, which didn't happen because of other commitments that turned out to be much more involved and grouchiness-invoking than he had imagined.
I've been trying to go with the flow; I swear I have, but it's been difficult. I'm pretty sure I told (well okay, more like "snapped at," than "told") Eli this morning that I was sick of hearing his stupid voice. So I've gotten not only to the point of yelling at my loved ones, but yelling grade school level barbs and insults. I half-expected to hear back that he's rubber and I'm glue...
But the morning had begun with an almost forgotten doctor's appointment and quickly gone downhill after that...
We were sitting around the breakfast table at Eli's parent's house, Eliot smearing biscuits and gravy into his hair, me mentally beginning the list of odds and ends still to be gathered together and organized and packed for our trip back home, when Eli dreamily wonders aloud, "Hmmm...doesn't Eliot have a doctor's appointment sometime this morning???"
It's 8:30. The appointment is for 10:00. It's an hour's drive home. I'm wearing yesterday's clothes stained with snot and other toddler detritus. There are dirty dishes in the sink. Our stuff strewn all over the house. The boat isn't yet hooked up to the truck. Our kid is sporting a thick paste of gravy on his forehead and in his hair.
In short, we are all screwed.
And that's how the day began. Fast forward to this afternoon, where I'm trying in vain to keep Eliot quiet enough for Eli to catch a few hours of sleep before work. It's not enough, apparently, for me to be holding him--he has to try to scale me, digging his little toes into my gut and clutching desperately at my neck.
The only time I am able to pry him off of me is during our visit to the public library, an unfortunately short-lived trip, as I could NOT convince Eliot that it MIGHT be a bad idea to lick puzzle pieces. Puzzle pieces that have undoubtedly passed through dozens of other sets of grubbly little toddler hands, and likely, mouths. *shudder* But this was all he wanted to do. Read books? Push the little magnetic train cars around the track? No! Not when there are delicious puzzle pieces here, just waiting to be tasted.
So we return home, where he commences the whining, crying, climbing once more. It's as though his goal is to perch on top of my head. This continues until Eli's parents stop by for a quick visit on their way home, and Eliot morphs into a grinning, giggling little imp, running around the living room in circles, chasing a ball, dancing, performing. Showing off all his best moves.
Then Grandma and Grandpa leave, and he is immediately beside himself again.
Some days bedtime just cannot come soon enough...